It takes five phasmids, to make me hate you

I find you and your green eyes,
rattled as an abacus, shouting
'abatic, abatis, abaxial, abbacy.'
No one but the moon, knows what you mean.

You tell me, you love me like a phasmid,
one that mistakes hastate for elliptic
and forgets to mate,
so you drag two flaming vines to bed, instead of me.

By the time you finish counting tree rings,
I will have lodged a new torroid deeper into the woods.

I will let you play with sketch-o-graph,
Watch you and your 'a', trying to neck the leaves,

from inside my copse, I will watch you fractuling.
I am cubic in my content, the cordate leaves will catch me.